


Ease

by Nununununu



Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Caretaking, Cuddling & Snuggling, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hope, Literal Sleeping Together, Nightmares, Protectiveness, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:40:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23334016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nununununu/pseuds/Nununununu
Summary: There are worse places to rest.
Relationships: Baby Yoda & The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)
Comments: 44
Kudos: 221
Collections: May the 4th Be With You Star Wars Fanworks Exchange 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whalebone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whalebone/gifts).



> For Whalebone :) Thanks for the lovely prompts <3
> 
> Part 1 is set early on in canon.  
> Part 2 is set after episode 8 (contains spoilers).
> 
> (Orig posted 04/11, updated for author reveals)

It is late by time as he measures it in space, so late even his head drops as sleep claims him over the controls, ingrained habit waking the Mandalorian a moment later and prompting him into casting a look around. The sight of the stars beyond the viewscreen is as it should be, as is the familiar layout of his ship, the split-second of a nightmare flash of remembered fear and pain dispersing without undue effort.

Next to him, the child coos gently, small hands flexing as he slumbers in his crib.

It isn’t cold on the Razor Crest, or at least not so much that he has noticed the child show signs of it. Still, for reasons he doesn’t analyse, the Mandalorian finds himself straightening the child’s blanket, pulling it up to rest under the small being’s chin from where it’s slipped.

He should go to his narrow berth, where he can remove his helmet and sleep properly. Instead the Mandalorian glances at the child one more time before folding his arms and letting his weight sink back against his chair.

There are worse places to rest.

The whimper that wakens him too few hours later makes him grateful for the decision. The child is thrashing in his blanket, tiny mouth open to let out another cry, face scrunched up in distress. A nightmare of his own?

The child certainly has plenty of reason for it.

“Hey,” Rocking the crib has no effect. Sighing through his nose, the Mandalorian picks the child up carefully along with his blanket. For once though, the small body doesn’t lose its rigidity when settled against cool armour.

“ _Mm_ –” The next cry he lets out, while wordless as ever, is still one of upset. A plea for the awful dream to end.

Something unfamiliar tugs within the Mandalorian’s breastbone.

This has happened before, where the child is concerned, perhaps enough times by now that he should strictly not call it unfamiliar. The Mandalorian nonetheless doesn’t stop to examine it.

“I’ve got you,” Instead he moves without thinking. Cupping his hand over the back of the child’s head, he rises from his chair to traipse through the ship, keeping his movements calm and even, careful not to jostle the child. A tiny hand goes out to clasp at his cloak as he travels the short distance to his berth.

Although it has been long years since he removed it last when in company, it is simpler than perhaps it should be to loosen the material from around his neck.

It is a strange impulse to swaddle the child further in the cloak, adding to the warmth and thickness of his own blanket, given the small being is not cold. And yet – and yet it works, especially when the Mandalorian holds the child to his chest again, higher this time, so the tiny face is near pressed against his neck and a small hand curls around his collar.

“Mm,” The child’s croon this time is one of profound relief.

“Hm,” the Mandalorian had not intended to allow the small being into his bed, fully certain that if it was permitted the once, it would thereafter always occur. Admittedly loathe to move and risk disturbing the peace the little one has again found by carrying him back to his crib, the Mandalorian therefore sits awkwardly half up and half lying down, before giving in to the inevitable and surrendering to gravity.

“Just for a few minutes,” he tells the child lowly, gloved fingers passing once over that soft head.

The child doesn’t stir except to let out a contented murmur.

It feels oddly hypnotic, staring up at the ceiling over his berth in the dim light provided by the stars outside filtering through the corridors of the ship, feeling the rhythm of the small body breathing against his chest.

Lulled without letting himself consciously realise it, the tension it feels like he constantly carries gradually seeps out of the Mandalorian until he too is asleep.

They remain like that, curled together, for the rest of the night. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Includes mention of canon character deaths.

He’s cold.

There’s no reason for it – the temperature reads as normal on the Razor Crest. The Mandalorian catches himself checking the sensors anyway, looking for an error, and makes himself stop. The cold has never particularly bothered him before; there’s no reason for it to do so now.

Behind him, the child sleeps in the container that acts as his crib. _His_ child, for the duration of the search that must end with the little one reunited with his own kind. The Mandalorian can’t get his head around it. He can’t get his head around how much he –

There is a part of him that –

“Hm.”

There is a part of him that is telling him he should have accepted the responsibility properly long ago. When he first broke the guild’s code. When he first rescued the child from the Imperials the Mandalorian himself had given him to.

Back when he had first seen the infant. The baby. The foundling. Right back at the beginning, he should have accepted the child. It is the way.

He _did_ accept the child. It just – took him some time to comes to terms with –

Well.

With how much he wants it. Even now it is difficult to acknowledge the extent.

“Mm –” The child lets out a soft croon from his crib. He was hurt today – the Mandalorian could see it in the way the little one moved when they were reunited, the way the child held his tiny body and strained to raise his arms. Even as he himself had been near dying, he had known –

Someone had hurt his child. This is so unacceptable it is difficult to breathe.

_I’m sorry._ It is easy to think it, now in the dark of space, the lateness of the hour and the cold. _I wasn’t there for you when –_

This isn’t a world in which having good intentions has ever been enough. And the thought of Kuiil, his friend who had had the best of intentions and the honesty and steadfast strength to admit them –

No.

Shifting on his seat, the Mandalorian goes to stand and spots something on the floor, not far from the child’s rudimentary crib. Not the proper crib Kuiil had been going to make for him, the bones of which will never be completed now. But down on the floor, down beneath the container the child is sleeping in, there lies something –

A cup. One of the cups IG-11 had served tea in, back before. There seems an obvious answer as to its presence in the cockpit. The Mandalorian finds himself sinking into a crouch and picking it up, staying like that looking at the thing for longer than he should. He isn’t –

Straightening back up, he takes a deliberate breath in.

“I’m not sad.”

It tastes like a lie this time as well.

“ _Mm_ ,” the child makes another noise low in his throat, little brow wrinkling as he turns his head fitfully as if beset by bad dreams.

“It’s all right,” Is this also a lie? Things are, for a given value, ‘all right’; they survived – they mostly survived – they are alive. Things will be well.

He will make sure of it.

The Mandalorian reaches into the crib to soothe that tiny frown with the thumb of his gloved hand, “I’m here.”

_This_ isn’t a lie. It’s a vow.

Never quite rising into wakefulness, the child coos, nestling into the touch when the Mandalorian cups his cheek before settling back down.

He should sleep himself. His head is still heavy, even despite the bacta. He has treated the child’s bruises with bacta as well, but the damage is still done. More than skin deep. How much death and abuse has the infant seen? No wonder he responded badly to the Mandalorian’s friendly tussle with Cara.

When else has the child ever witnessed such a thing? He is bone-deep certain the baby was trying to protect him. 

“Thank you.” Not for attacking Cara; never that. Not for hurting one of the few people in this world they can trust. But for seeking to look out for him.

The notion should be absurd. But they are a clan now, at least for the time being –

And this is something else he can’t admit that he wants –

They are a clan now. He will die to defend this little one, if it comes to it. But for the child’s sake –

It would be much better to live.

Climbing down into the belly of the ship to his berth, the Mandalorian allows himself a sigh at the ache of worn muscles as he readies himself to lie down. Gazes sightlessly at the low ceiling once he has done so, hesitating to take off his helmet, not quite consciously identifying the reason for it.

Waiting without acknowledging he’s waiting.

“Mmmm?” It is a soft querying sound, coming from nearby in the dark. There is a pause and then a rustle, as the little one takes his lack of response as permission to clamber up onto the bed. The child’s weight negligible as he picks his way up over the blanket to the crook of the Mandalorian’s elbow.

“Here,” The Mandalorian lifts his arm up so the child can crawl into the space this creates, pulling the blanket and the corner of his cloak over the small body as the little one carefully eases down there. Blocking out that feeling of cold.

“Muh!”

He isn’t wearing his cuirass or under armour; he feels the child’s start of surprise as he realises this. After a second, the Mandalorian feels a tiny hand sneak out to touch the simple layer of cloth he has on. Feeling –

The child must be feeling the slow warming of his skin through his clothes; the movement of his lungs as he breathes. Comfort –

The Mandalorian has no idea why the movement of those small fingers should be comforting. It should be the other way around; he should be the one providing the reassurance.

Thinking of which –

“You – did good today,” he tells the child, gruff. Swallows to rid his voice of the husk to it, “You did good.” As hazy as the Mandalorian had been then, he had clearly seen the child stop the fire, “Saved our skins.”

The little one whines as if he knows this isn’t entirely true.

“Hey,” Reaching out to stroke that small head, the Mandalorian ever so gently tugs an ear, “Sometimes we can’t save everyone.”

This is a lesson he learned himself early on. But still –

Damn it. His eyes sting.

“We do what we can. To protect those we –”

There is a word for it. There is a word for what he feels for this child, _his_ child; one he can almost acknowledge.

_I am your father, at least for now. You are my son._

The thoughts are still unfamiliar, but not at all unwelcome. Instead they feel –

Right. True.

_I wish –_

He learned long ago that wishes don’t mean anything. As the child wriggles in closer against his side and drifts back to sleep, the Mandalorian closes his eyes. Unable to deny that, for the first time in more years than he wants to remember –

He feels hope.


End file.
